


After School

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Secret Admirer, Teen John Watson, Teen Sherlock, Teenlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson sees a beautiful, dark-haired boy smoking against the side of their school gym every morning and every afternoon. He doesn't know the boy's name, he doesn't know the sound of the boy's voice, and he doesn't know why Sebastian Moran is currently using him as a punching bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After School

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these characters. Not beta'd or britpicked, sorry.

The boy was around sixteen, with dark curls that went off in all directions and eyes that did the same in the light. One minute they were grey, the next, cold blue. His skin was pale and smooth, and his cheekbones were sharp and high. The boy was tall and slim, with long legs and narrow shoulders. His default expression was ‘indifference,’ but he had a smirk that made John’s knees wobble.  
The boy knew how he looked, and he knew how to use it to his advantage. Most of the girls and even some of the boys walked after him with hearts in their eyes, not bothering to hide their feelings. What was the use when he could see them whether you wanted him to or not? He never had an ounce interest in any of them, and he waved them off with a flick of his hand.  
Usually, they gave up as soon as he opened his mouth. John wondered if that was because the boy dismissed them or if he was just that much of a tosser.  
The boy’s uniform was always impeccable, except for a missing purple and black tie he never seemed to get in trouble for. He was the smartest kid in their school - probably in London. He wasn’t in any of John’s classes, but John knew the boy was taking courses twice as difficult as most kids his age would. He could tell your whole life story just by looking at you, and he was never wrong. He saw the importance in things other people didn’t.  
The boy was always outside the gym, a cigarette dangling from his lips and smoke floating around his head like a twisted halo. As much as John despised smoking, he had to admit it painted a pretty picture.   
Well, John thought, he could do anything and the same would still be true.  
One day, there was no smoke. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his fingers twitched, probably used to having a cigarette to hold.  
He must be quitting. I wonder if someone made him. Good on him, either way.  
Every morning, John spent ten minutes convincing himself to just go up to the boy and say, "Hello, I’m John Watson. Care to go out sometime?"  
Every morning, John walked right by.

 

Some days, the boy would have someone with him. They would say something to him, and the boy would roll his eyes and wave them off with a lazy flick of his hand, no more than three words out his mouth.  
John never heard the dark-haired boy’s voice. He was too far away for that.  
Today, a girl with dark hair and silvery eyes was leaning against him, her lips brushing his ear. Her hand rested on his shoulder to steady herself. The boy grasped her hip and whispered something to her. She jerked away, her high cheekbones tinged pink. The girl walked away, pushing past John to get to the school.  
John paused as he recognized her. It was Irene Adler. He looked at the boy, who winked at him and disappeared around the corner.  
The next day, the boy was sporting a deep purple bruise under his left eye. John later learned that Irene had a girlfriend, a ginger girl in John’s year named Kate, who could throw a punch as well as she could walk in heels.

 

"What the hell is your problem, Holmes?"  
John froze. He glanced over to the boy’s usual spot. There were three boys surrounding the one with dark hair, two holding his arms as one pulled his hair and snarled in his face. John spent a moment trying to place that voice and those faces, and swore to himself when he recognized them. Anderson and Sebastian Wilkes were holding the boy back, and the one talking was Sebastian Moran, the biggest, most aggressive kid in school.  
Figures he manages to piss of literally the worst person, John thought.  
"You think you can flirt with my girlfriend and get off scot-free?"   
"I don’t flirt with people, especially not those idiotic enough to associate with a Neanderthal such as yourself."  
They definitely weren’t the words John would’ve chosen as the first he would hear the boy say, but they were good words nonetheless. Not particularly smart, but good ones.  
The boy rewarded the comment with punch to the jaw. "You want to say that again?"  
"Oh, did you not hear me the first time? I can say it louder, if you like."  
"You think you’re smart." Moran threw another punch that landed on a high cheekbone. "But you’re not." He kneed the boy in the stomach. "You’re your own freakshow." He slapped him hard across the face. The boy’s lip started bleeding. "Sherlock Holmes, freak supreme."  
"Clever," the boy -- Sherlock -- croaked, and spit on the boy’s shoes. The saliva was pink with blood.  
"I’m going to-"  
"Oi!" John called, dropping his backpack on the pavement. "What do you think you’re doing? Let go of him!"  
"Watson!" Moran yelled back, grinning. "Come to join the fun, have you?"  
"Oh, yeah, this looks really entertaining," John replied, fuming. "Get out of here."  
"Or what, Johnny-boy? What are you gonna do?"  
John half-smiled and looked away. "Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, I just-"  
Moran turned away, and John used the opportunity to strike him in the jaw. The thing about John was: he was stronger than he looked. He was short, yeah, but most of his frame was made of muscle. So, John’s hit sent Moran reeling backwards. John turned to the boys restraining Sherlock, and one of them fled, dropping the boy’s arm like it was a burning coal. John raised an eyebrow at the other one, but he stood his ground, gripping Sherlock’s arm like a lifeline.  
"Call him off," John ordered, glaring at Moran.  
"I don’t think I will."  
John rolled his eyes. "You know what I think? I think you’ll call off your moronic little cult followers and leave Sherlock alone, or I’m going to make your life hell."  
"I’m sure," Moran jeered. "What’re you gonna do to me if I keep on bothering your smart-arse little boyfriend? The answer’s nothing, Johnny-boy."  
"You’re sure you want to test me?"  
Moran sneered and lunged at John. The shorter boy swung again and felt bone crunch under his fist. He winced as the skin on his knuckles split. Moran yelped.  
"You broke my bloody nose!"  
"Accurate description," John muttered.  
"Wilkes, come on," Moran snapped. "Help me with this."  
Wilkes dropped Sherlock’s arm and ran off with Moran, leaving John with the bloodied sixteen-year-old. John wiped his knuckles on his trousers and cleared his throat. He knelt down next to the boy, who had collapsed against the building.   
"Go ahead, then," the dark-haired boy croaked. "Do your worst. Finish me off. Show them how tough you are."  
"I’m not like them," John said, checking Sherlock’s face and neck for bruises. "I’m not going to hurt you."  
"Then why are you here?"  
"They shouldn’t treat you like that."  
"Why shouldn’t they?"  
"Because you’re not a freak," John said, a little more harshly than he had intended to. He tried to soften his voice. "You’re a human being and deserve to be treated like one. You have a talent -- a pretty amazing one, in fact -- and they’re jealous that they’ve got nothing. You can look at someone and pick apart everything about them, and they can’t even find a productive outlet for their anger."  
The boy -- Sherlock -- sat gaping at him.  
"Oh."  
"Oh," John parroted. "That’s all you have to say? I’d have thought you’d be rambling off those observations of yours by now."  
"Deductions," he corrected.  
"I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what it is?"  
"I can’t."  
Sherlock lowered his eyes and blushed, the pink startling against his ivory skin. He looked up at John, put his hand on the older boy’s elbow, and gently pressed their lips together.  
John’s brain short-circuited. He knelt there paralyzed; the only thing he could feel were Sherlock’s lips on his, soft and firm. The dark-haired boy pulled away, his eyes downcast. His whole face was red now, and he looked up at John with a carefully guarded expression.  
He tastes like summer, John thought.   
"Pardon?"  
Maybe John hadn’t actually kept that thought in his head.  
"You taste like summer," John muttered, glancing again at the boy’s mouth.  
"You’re not angry with me."  
"I- no, I’m not. Why would I be?"  
"You’re not gay," Sherlock replied easily, like he’d said it to himself a million times before. "And I’m not desirable. To anyone."  
"Do you not see half the school throwing themselves at you? You’ve got girls and blokes following you around, lovesick," John laughed. "Besides, I’m not gay, but that doesn’t mean I’m straight."  
"Does- what?"  
John hooked his fingers around some of the boy's curls. "Are you sure they didn't knock something loose in there?"  
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "I'm fine. That was just... unexpected."  
"But you can read everything, how was that unexpected? Couldn't you deduct it?"  
"Deduce," Sherlock replied absently. "Help me up, will you?"  
"Oh! Yeah, right, come on." John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him up. He gripped the thinner boy's waist as he stumbled. "Hey, can you get home by yourself?"  
"I've managed before."  
"Well, you were alone before. Now you've got me. So do you need a ride or not?"  
"You walk to school."  
"How'd you know that? Probably the way I tie my shoes, or something."  
"The only reason I smoke -- or, used to smoke -- in that spot is because you always walk by that way. I see you before and after school. Really. I can get home myself. I don't live that far from here."  
"I'm sure. But I live down this street, and I know for a fact there's a car there. Harry's grounded, so she's not out. I'll drive you home."  
“You don’t need to.”  
“I’m going to, anyway.”  
“People might talk, you know. John Watson, respectable, intelligent, rugby captain John Watson, dragging the bloody sociopath back to his house.”  
“Ah, people do little else,” John replied. “How do you know my name?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his face reddened. “Moran called you both ‘Watson,’ and ‘Johnny-boy.’ It wasn’t a difficult leap.”  
John chuckled. “Are you sure that’s it?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, too quickly.  
John frowned. “I didn’t know your name until they said it.”  
“Not the most pleasant of introductions, I’m afraid.”  
“You’re right.” John held out the hand that wasn’t holding onto Sherlock’s waist. “Hello, I’m John Watson. Care to go out sometime?”  
Sherlock smiled, a look that lit up his whole face. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And I’d love to.”  
They arrived at John’s house in no time, where John insisted on helping Sherlock clean himself up before he went home. John sat Sherlock on the toilet seat and gently wiped the blood from his face with a wet paper towel. He gave him a quick peck and smiled.  
“Much better,” he said. Sherlock blushed furiously.  
“Johnny, are you home?” his sister called from her room down the hall.  
“Yeah, but I’m heading out again.”  
Harry flung open her door and leaned against the doorframe. “Where to? You got a hot date, or something?”  
John glanced at Sherlock, smirking as the other boy blushed. “You could say that. I’m gonna give Sherlock here a ride home. I’ll be taking the car.”  
“Sherlock? Is that a girl’s name?”  
“No, Harry.”  
"Sorry about my sister," John apologized when they were finally in the car.  
"My brother's worse."  
John chuckled and leaned in for another small brush of lips. He could spend hours just kissing Sherlock, he decided. He wondered if the boy would let him. Judging by the contented little hum he gave when John slid his fingers into his dark curls, the answer was yes, probably.  
John parted his lips, seeking more, but Sherlock pulled away. His hair was disheveled and his lips were red and kiss-swollen. John blushed and stammered, "Er, sorry. I got, um, a bit carried away there."  
"What? No, that -- that was... good. It's just that your sister is watching us." Sherlock pointed to the front window, where they could clearly see Harry's silhouette disappearing.   
John sighed and pulled out of their driveway. "We should probably get you home then, if she's just going to interrupt us."  
The two were silent until John pulled into Sherlock’s driveway. John leaned over to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own once again  
“Thank you,” the dark-haired boy sighed. “For everything.”  
“Don’t thank me,” John murmured. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”  
“So we can snog in the car before school?”  
“Now, there’s an idea.”


End file.
